


Olive You

by Mist_Over_Water



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mist_Over_Water/pseuds/Mist_Over_Water
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany keeps finding olives outside his house and wants to find out who is out to get him. Hint: Italy is the third largest producer of olives in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olive You

"I- I don't get it."

Germany sat back, elbow on his knee, chin rested against his knuckles. His eyes plastered to the box of olives in his house, which had been found outside his front door earlier that same morning. He kept staring, hoping that the food would fall into an intimidated trance and tell him what they were doing there. He only sat in silence, trying to determine the intentions of the green fruit. Had they been delivered to the wrong person? Simply a mix up of address? Or… Did they have a more sinister purpose? Germany really did not understand the case of the olives.

He tried to think of any countries who were known for producing olives, alas, the only ones that came to mind were Spain, Greece and… Italy. Although, he could not think of a reason why any of them would feel so inclined to send such a gift (save for Italy. He just loved to irritate our German protagonist), and honestly, with Greece's economy (or lack thereof), could he really afford to be giving away free produce. He searched the outside of the box for some clue as to who had sent it, and yet, he still found himself utterly bemused; possibly even moreso than before.

Germany really did not understand.

That was how the following month, after two more boxes of olives being delivered to his house, he found himself at the top of the meeting table, eyes surveying the three suspects, anger coursing through his veins at the three imports of olives stuck in his kitchen, with nothing to do with them. "So," He began, noticing the vacant expressions of the other nations, "We shall take a quick recess. Be back in half an hour." He rolled his eyes at the breaths of relief that were released throughout the room, as papers were shuffled as personifications prepared to leave. "Except Spain, Greece and Italy. I vish to speak to you."

Everyone exchanged glances, before looking to the presumably soon to be victims of Germany's anger, before running out of the meeting as quickly as they could, leaving the three to sit awkwardly, watching the well-built man examine the thee for an excruciatingly long time. "Now, I know zis may seem like a… Trivial issue, but I feel as though I must know." He took a deep breath and finished, "Which one of you has been sending me olives?" And after the phrase was uttered, the silence rung out as the smaller trio of countries looked to each other in complete confusion; but Spain was the first to speak and break the becoming stale atmosphere.

"O- Olives, Germany? This is all about olives?"

"Yes."

"… Like the fruit?"

Germany sighed, rubbing the sides of his head, "Yes. You see, I've been finding crates of olives outside my house, and it's rather… Unsettling. So if you have been doing zis, or supplying other nations, please speak now so I may sort this out once and for all." Spain quickly shook his head in denial; Greece stroked the cat in his arms for a moment before looking to the blond haired German and also shook his head, while Italy looked to his 'caretaker', and as soon as he declared that he had not been the one to send the olives, Germany zoned out the sound of his voice into the background. He turned and left, no further to the truth of who was harassing him in the form of the round fruit.

Germany did not understand the case of the olives. Spain, Greece and Italy did not understand the case of Germany and the olives.

The German was sitting behind his desk, filling out paperwork, as he was usually found on Friday evenings; it was not like he was complaining. Whilst most of the younger countries were out drinking and making complete fools of themselves, he got to stay and make sure that he had the weekend free to do whatever he wanted, whilst everyone else was catching up with what they should have been doing at that moment. Still, in his happy-come-alone time, he found himself in a blissful haze of silence and social policies. Numbers danced across the paper, exporting against importing, immigration and emigration… Ah, what an amazing Friday night!

Which was broken by a knocking on the door.

He did not hesitate to get up and answer it, although the expression that overtook his features made whomever was at the door know straight away that he was busy and not happy to be interrupted during such a time. When he opened his door, he was angered even more to find no one there. Although, he was completely infuriated by the crate, with the word 'OLIVES' stamped across the front. He had half a mind to kick it in fury; kick it until his legs ached and until the fruit was made into nothing more but a thick liquid and the wood was merely splintered across the ground that had been made green.

But this time something felt different about the crate. It was bigger, and the lid was closed; he could not help but remember a time much earlier on, when he had first met Italy. Him hiding in a crate which was disguised as tomatoes. He groaned, hoping that it was just a coincidence that he was getting these feelings before opening it, and the Italian inside was lucky that Germany had long since learned to control his reflexes as he jumped out. However, in true Northern Italy style, jumping out was not the only aspect to the action, but also the added shrill, "Olive you!" to add insult to Germany's injury.

After a few moments of Germany standing in the doorway of his house with a bemused expression, and Italy with that stupid smile upon his face, and his arms wide open as if expecting a hug, Germany could only turn and close the door. "Go away, Italy." Feliciano, as he was sometimes called, heard the deep voice from within say quietly. The voice grew even smaller as he managed to confess to what he thought was the air: "And—I love you too."


End file.
